


Hyacinth Breaths

by koosei



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Hanahaki Disease, Happy Ending, Language of Flowers, Mutual Pining, Sorry Not Sorry, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, please just kiss, so much angst tho, these two are idiots tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:47:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23959423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koosei/pseuds/koosei
Summary: Much like the blossoms that have taken to falling from his lips, you worry that you are somehow responsible for choking the life from him.A hanahaki AU featuring Urianger and WoL on the First.
Relationships: Urianger Augurelt/Warrior of Light
Comments: 6
Kudos: 53
Collections: May-U Fic Exchange 2020





	Hyacinth Breaths

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Antiloquist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antiloquist/gifts).



> Hello and welcome to my MayU2020 fill for Antiloquist! Original prompt was:
> 
> "Lists of characters I like: WoL with any of the Ishgard boys, Emet and other Ascians, Urianger, and the DRK family. (Female/neutral WoL pref)  
> AUs I'm iffy on reading/writing: High School/College AU, Band AU, AUs that make things extremely angsty. Basically angst without a happy ending makes me too sad."
> 
> So uhhhhhh ....... I kinda went hard on the angst, but I **_SWEAR_** it has a happy ending!!!! I SWEAR IT DOES. They're just idiots that want the other to be happy.

It had started with just a roughness to his otherwise smooth voice.

_"’Tis merely an itch, my friend,"_ he had said. _"T'will pass with time."_ He had added a spoon of honey to his ever present tea and merely continued on with his explanation of Garlean hierarchies, and how one might best use it to their advantage in a rebellion. It had been a fascinating discussion. 

By the time his soul was taken to the shard of the First, the roughness had become a raspy, persistent cough. Despite the worry that crept twixt you and the rest of the Scions, always he would console you with that gentle, sweet smile as you brought him yet another pot of tea and honey. Did he always go through quite so much of it? Or was it only due to this odd cough?

_“Truly my dear, touching as thy concern is, ‘tis naught to fret over.”_

His hand lays limp in yours now, graceful fingers brushing your wrist as you'd so often wished they would. How many bells and days had you wished he would grace you with his touch, with his regard, even knowing that his soul was bound to another?

It's with a bittersweet smile that you brush a tiny, five petalled flower from his face as it drifts from his open mouth on a shaky exhaled breath. You can hear it now, the slight rustling of air in his throat as he fights for air. Flowers representing the unrequited love for his soulmate slowly choking the life from his body and heart both. You’re no botanist, to identify the flower merely by its petals. Yet the soft velvety texture and deep purple colour feels so _right_ for Urianger that you somehow can’t manage to direct the hate you feel for his soulmate’s unfeeling ways to the flower itself. How could you? 

How could you when the man you love has such strong and powerful feelings that they would literally try to drown him. That he would rather die than be without them, and has created such a beautiful flower from those unrequited feelings. Such a disease is passingly rare on the Source, existing only as a myth or legend. Yet it seems to be rooted firmly in reality here on the First. With no known cure save that the love be returned. 

Slender fingers press down on your shoulder, dragging your attention away from the way the colour of the petal looks against the dusky-grey of your skin. _And what if the flowers WERE for you? What then?_

“For now all we can do is ensure his comfort. We have time yet to see to that at least. There’s been no word yet from Moren, and can only assume he is still searching. Feo Ul has allowed access to Voeburt’s records in their castle, and to that end I shall pick up our search for an answer. Keep your linkpearl on hand and let us know if aught changes.” Y’shtola sweeps out of the room after a brief nod to you, Thancred, Ryne, and Alphinaud in tow. The more eyes to search, the better, she had said. 

Alisaie, the only one to whom you’ve dared share your feelings with, lingers only long enough to sweep you into a tight hug before rushing to catch up. “We’ll find something, I promise. You won’t lose him.”

  
  


\------------------------

  
  


_A warm weight settles around your shoulders, rousing you just enough to feel the weight of a blanket being laid atop you and a soft kiss to your forehead. A gentle, male voice hushs your sleepy question and tucks you further into the bed, Urianger’s peculiar scent of tea leaves and ink surrounding you and tickling your nose. It’s as comforting a scent as it is familiar, and for once you allow yourself to nuzzle into the warmth of his body. Sleep claims you once more as you drift off, clinging to the arm of the man who holds your heart._

Any other time you would wake yourself from the pain of this dream. With all that’s happened though ….. If this -- this Flower Breath should take him and snuff his light out of your life, you’ll take what comfort you can while he’s still around. 

The click of the door latching behind you echoes through the room, jolting you out of the warm comfort of your doze. Where? No, you’re still in the Bookman’s Shelves. Still tending to Urianger through this strange new disease, though how you got onto the bed beside him with a thick woolen blanket laid over your shoulders is a mystery. 

Looking around the room, you find that the book you had been perusing before slumber took you has been neatly set aside on the bedside table, a leaf-turned-bookmark telling of Ryne’s care in making sure you don’t lose your place. A bowl of still steaming stew full of vegetables speaks of Y’shtola’s hand, though you recognize the blanket as one from the pile that Thancred has squirreled away here during his time in Norvrandt. All of the care shown by your fellow Scions pales next to the sight that lays in the bed beside you. 

The silver-blue light of the moon has drifted through the open window, casting Urianger’s face in sharp relief, cheekbones high and bright and cheeks sunken dark from illness. The wine-dark maroon of his Archon’s Sigil is ever more prominent in the harsh light even as his beloved starlight glints along the silvery-grey of his lashes. He’s breathtaking in this light, and your heart aches to look upon him as you do. Without pause, without thought, your hand reaches out to caress his cheek, the dusky-grey of your skin a sharp contrast to the moon-pale of his own.

He’s cold. Too cold, for being cocooned in so many blankets. It’s then that you notice the lack of movement in his chest, the blue tinge in his pallor that’s more than merely the moon’s light. Fear urges your limbs to motion, gold and gems slipping under your fingers as you struggle to find the release for his ornate necklace. For all that there must be some means to remove it, the joins hidden in the metal remain hidden from you. A cry of frustration tears itself from your throat as you scramble to lean over him, blanket falling from your shoulders with not a care for the chill of the room.

Your heart pounds a staccato beat in your throat, fingers fumbling as you pull and tear at the blankets to free him from their hold. Finally you see the pale skin of his arm and manage to pull him free of the blankets. Fumbling until you can tear open the clasp of his golden, embossed wristlet, you press shaking fingers to the crook of his wrist. Long, elegant fingers drape limp over yours, and were it any other moment you might savour the stolen pleasure of being able to enjoy his touch as you will. 

Your voice fills the room, begging, pleading a denial as fervently as prayer as you struggle to find any hint of a heartbeat in his wrist. You don’t have the training of a chirurgeon to be able to properly read a man’s pulse, and the ever present resentment for your own lack of knowledge rises once more before panic overtakes you. Sweaty palms and trembling fingers are ill suited for finding a pulse and your mounting distress misleads you from picking up the faint beat under your fingers. 

The door slams open, jerking your gaze away from Urianger. Specifics are lost through the tears filling your eyes, yet still you recognize Thancred as he barges into the room, bare chested and clad only in a pair of loose sleep pants. 

“What happened?” You vaguely note the white shocks of hair denoting Y’shtola and the twins behind him, rushing to fill Urianger’s small room with cries of alarm. 

“He -- he’s --” Gulping down the sobs threatening to steal your voice once more does little to enable your speech. “He’s not breathing!! I -- I can’t find --” 

Thancred’s rough fingers ease your grip off Urianger’s wrist, calm determination a sharp contrast to the flights of high emotion that few outside the Scions know you to be prone to. His hands are far steadier than yours had been, firm and steady with the other hand hovering over Urianger’s mouth. 

His pronouncement of a pulse and breath, however faint, goes unheard as you stare in shock. There, on the underside of the Elezen’s wrist as it lays limp on the crisp bedsheets lies a soulmark. One that matches the very same soulmark you had covered up with a widow’s shading years ago in a pique of teenage rebellion. Lit by the light of Y’shtola’s rejuvenating spells, the swirls and loops of the intricate design are exactly as you recall -- exactly as you can sometimes see through the ink’s artificial covering, as if the mark itself refuses to be ignored. Your own long, dark fingers reach out, ghosting along the design you could draw in your sleep, halting mere ilms from his skin.

“No. No. _No!_ Urianger! No, don’t do this …”

Your frantic motions return, tugging and pulling at the wrap suffocating your left arm. What once was a comfort and prevented people continuously consoling you for a loss that hadn’t occurred is now stifling. Your ever present arm wraps feel now as a too-tight bandage on a festering wound. Horrified sobs wrench their way from you with the thought that this might be your own doing, Feo Ul’s voice echoing in your head with their words of the old fae tale. 

_Aaah, my lovely little sapling, they say the flower breath is a lovers’ disease. When love is unshared yet ever-lasting, a flower symbolizing that love grows and festers in their throat. It’s said that it blooms only for the strongest of loves, typically with your [hearts-twin]._

_We’ve urged him to speak to his bloom and gain her love, yet always he’s refused and insisted that she lies beyond his reach. If his lady's love has indeed been lost, then there's naught that can be done to save him and he shall follow._

Nails scratch and gouge at your skin as you fight to remove the wrap in your terror. The series of knots that typically hold it firmly in place are performing their purpose too well, now, resisting your efforts to remove them. Hands appear just as you’ve managed to start a rent in the fabric itself, tearing your hand from the wrap and restraining your efforts to free yourself. 

“No! No! Let me go! I have to - I have to show him!” Tearing your arm free with a portion of the strength that’s made you feared in Eorzea and beyond, you bring your bound arm to your face, teeth grabbing hold of the fabric. You rip and tear at it, fighting to get it past the knot, unaware of the concerned glances passing over your head. A soft, small hand grasps your wrist, pulling it away, and it’s only when you notice it’s Ryne with a small knife in her hand that you manage to calm down ever so slightly. The knife is sharp, and Ryne is careful not to cut you even as the soft _shrr_ of the blade cutting through layers of fabric fills your ears. 

Layers and intricate ties fall one by one, and the dark spot of your soul mark blacked out by that foolish - _childish, stupid_ \- decision stares up at you accusingly. The beautiful turns and twists that grace Urianger’s arm are hideous and ugly beneath the ink blending it into the tones of your own dusky skin. What once had felt necessary to escape your family’s badgering for a life of adventuring is all the more foolish now that the man that you love - your soulmate, even - lies dying on the bed beside you. 

Now, bared to the open air next to its mate, there’s no doubt as to the match and your heart aches with regret for your youthfully rash decision. You had only started hiding the mark after you joined the Scions, of course Urianger would have heard of your ‘widow’s mark’. His refusal to acknowledge your flirtations is so much more obvious now, a mark of his respect for you and your ‘deceased’. It makes your heart twist anew in your chest, keening sob tearing from your throat as you fall forward, resting your forehead against his still chest, clenched fists beating gently on his ribs.

“No! Don’t leave me! Please! _No!!!_ ” Your voice falls to a whisper, sobs making your words almost unintelligible as you plead for him to return to you. Even if it’s someone else he’s fallen in love with, still you beg over and over for him to live. Whoever it is, he can go to them, you won’t hold him down, just please live. You love him so much, just please _live_.

An insidious voice in the back of your head whispers to you between your pleas. And why would he love you back? An axe swinging brute of a woman selfish enough to cover her own soulmark and lie about it? Now that you’re thinking of it, perhaps it would be better for him to pass on, even as the thought makes you sob even harder into the silky black fabric gracing his chest. He never was the same after Moenbryda died. If she’s the one he loves, maybe he’s only been biding his time to return to her. 

Hands, Y’shtola and Ryne’s this time, gently pull at you, urging you off your perch on Urianger’s legs. You don’t fight them, resigned to being a widow in full. Will the mark change below the ink? The artist had done a remarkably convincing simulacrum of the way a mark would fade with its partner’s death. Would there be any difference at all beyond the gaping wound in your heart?

A ragged cough from the bed has you whirling around, eyes wide to take in the sight of Thancred kneeling over Urianger, palms folded and pumping on the center of his chest and tiny purple blooms flying out of Urianger’s mouth with every forced exhale. 

“Purple Hyacinth.” Y’shtola’s voice is calm behind you, yet you can feel the judgement in the blind woman’s stare. “Symbolic of deep sorrow, jealousy, and a request for forgiveness. Yet the white base and streaks of the same through the flower’s bloom hints at a hopeful prayer oft repeated.”

It’s with a flinching curl of shame that you wrap the fingers of your other hand round the mark. Yet the movement itself doesn’t go unnoticed. Thancred, finished with propping Urianger up against the wall to ease his breathing, storms up to you. Have you ever seen him this angry before? If you have, you can’t recall when. Even his rage and hatred for Emet-Selch pales under the look he’s giving you now. You take a step back, instinctively, only to bump into Y’shtola, the hard lines of her crossed arms sending a feeling akin to bars across your ribcage. 

“Anything else you’d like to share with us? Any pressing bits of info you want to cough up before he _dies_?” 

Ordinarily you’d stand Thancred down, bicker and fight and wrestle with him and refuse to let him take the high ground. Yet tonight, you can’t. Emotion is still raw in your breast, relief at Urianger’s continued breathing stealing your own, and you can’t find the words to defend yourself. Pale amber eyes glower at you beneath heavy brows, and the warrior in you notes the way Thancred’s sword hand is clenching as if wishing for a blade. You shake your head, a whispered _No_ leaving your lips as you divert your eyes. Only for your heart to leap into your throat as you see Urianger’s lids flicker, head rolling against the wall as he fights for breath. 

“Do you know what you’ve done? Any idea at all?! Do you even CARE??” Booted feet enter your lowered vision as he rages, rough fingers yanking at your arm and bringing your hidden mark into view. His grip is just on the wrong side of too tight as he twists your wrist to get a better view. Hushed, tense silence fills the room as he looks to you for an answer, yet your voice is trapped as surely as if you were choking on a flower yourself.

“So you _wish_ him dead, then?” He drops his grip on your arm, the disgust in the hissed statement matching that on his face when you snap your gaze up from the floor.

Your mouth works silently in horror, working to find the words to defend yourself. It’s only when his eyes narrow further, mouth drawing to a sharp, thin line that you realize you have yet to answer.

“NO!! Of course not!!”

“THAT’S NOT WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE FROM HERE!!” Thancred’s fist balls in the neck of your shirt, dragging you down to his level and off balance so he can bellow in your face.

You don’t even swat his grip away as you might typically. He’s right. Much as you might wish otherwise, he’s not wrong at all and that’s almost worse than knowing that Urianger loves another -- the thought that he might yet die believing that you wished for his death by marring your mark so. 

“Don’t just stand there! SAY SOMETHING!!” The fist holding your shirt trembles with his restraint, yet you still brace yourself for the blow you rightly deserve even while tears trickle down from the corners of your eyes.

“I’m sorry. I’m so -” Your breath hiccups in your chest when you look over at him just in time to see a fresh tumble of blooms fall from your love’s lips. “- so, so sorry, Urianger.”

A sneer curls Thancred’s mouth, an echo to so long ago when he had been possessed by Lahabrea. “SORRY WON’T CURE HIM!!” The shout however is pure Thancred, as is the fist slamming into your stomach. Your own breath escapes you in a startled cough and for a moment his fist in your shirt is the only thing holding you upright. 

“Thancred!” Y’shtola’s bark jolts him out of his fury. Blowing fiercely through his nose, Thancred releases your shirt and steps back abruptly. His fists clench as if he wants to throw another blow, yet instead he stomps around you, avoiding you, storming out the door. Ryne scurries after him with startled grey eyes and shortly after you hear the front door of the Bookmans Shelves slamming behind them. 

“While I’ll not condone that blow, you certainly have a number of things to answer for.” Y’shtola’s voice is cold and hard over the sound of your coughing, leaving no doubt as to her lack of sympathy. 

“Nay.”

His typically smooth voice is hoarse, barely any volume to it at all, yet the sound of Urianger’s speaking draws you as a moth to a flame. The one word sends him into a fit of hacking coughs, flowers tumbling to his lap in a flurry. Without thought you scramble to your feet for the pitcher of water on the nightstand, pouring a glass and handing it to him in a hurry. His smile is pained, though he accepts the glass nonetheless. You’re so relieved to see him awake that you don’t even realize that you’ve shoved your uncovered wrist into his field of vision. 

“Pray, be not angry. Such afflictions as have befallen me are mine own fault and none other’s.” His words are steady, though interrupted with every breath by even more flowers, blooms clumping together now in bloodstained clusters. 

Now that he’s awake, you find yourself itching to move and be helpful. The water jug is still full, and it’s only a matter of some few moments for you to right the blankets you had mussed in your earlier distress. Keeping your head down, you busy yourself with folding the blanket Thancred had lent you, studiously avoiding Urianger’s gaze while he responds to Y’shtola’s probing questions in hushed tones. 

Fidgety, nervous hands find their way to the cold teapot, organizing and neatening the tray. There are saucers to stack, one clean mug and one with half drunk tea and honey sunk to the bottom. A lid is replaced onto the honey pot, crumbs from lunch swept into a napkin, anything else you can do to delay having to face the situation but still remain in the room with him. Eventually, all too soon, you run out of things to tidy. Picking the tea tray up, you announce your intention to make more only to turn and have it plucked from your hands by the sorceress that was seemingly waiting for the opportunity.

“ _I_ will make tea. _You_ can stay here and speak with Urianger.” Blind as she may be, her gaze and words are no less potent for their hidden meaning. _No more running. Talk with him, show him the mark and apologize to his face._ Her stride out of the room is brisk, curt, foot catching and closing the door firmly behind her as she passes through the threshold. The skin crawls at the back of your neck while you stare at the closed door in desperation, a sure sign of Urianger’s gaze on your back. 

A deep breath, and you steel yourself for this needful conversation as best you think you can before turning around, trembling hands clutching at your elbows behind your back. “I - I’m glad you’re awake now.” 

As soon as the words leave your lips, you see amusement quirk his pale lips. _Damn it all to the seven hells. Of course you’re glad he’s awake. What kind of opening statement is that? Useless, can’t say anything other than banal pleasantries -_

“‘Tis -” The word barely leaves his mouth before he’s bent nearly double in the bed, coughing and heaving as clusters of flowers force their way out of his lungs. Any nervousness that might have slowed you down is replaced in an instant with concern. Rushing to his side, your hands hover over his back, wanting to provide support and help but unsure if your touch is welcome. After a moment’s hesitation, you twist to grab the glass of water and bring it close to his reach. 

Accepting it with a breathy murmur, his fingers curl round the bottom of the empty glass, waiting for a pause in his coughing to down the water in one long, continuous go. Eyes closed while he drinks, silvery lashes fan the arch of his cheeks and the bobbing of his throat capture your attention. Hastily, you wet your lips and look away. It wouldn’t do to be caught staring _now_ of all times. Yet you can’t quite help the slight flush purpling the dark skin of your cheeks. 

With a sigh he places the ceramic mug down amongst the pile of flowers, and without thinking you rush to steady him while he lowers himself back against the wall. 

“T’was not necessary, but I thank you for thine aid, my friend.” Your returned smile is tremulous at best, and once more you wish he would call you something other than _friend_. 

Unsure what else to do, you reach for the cupat his knees, and are caught by surprise when his fingers - his long, graceful fingers - touch your arm. A chill racks through you as he trails his feather light touch down to the base of your palm, the gentle touch of pressure his silent command to turn your wrist around to face him. The lump in your throat returns with a vengeance, eyes scrunching shut in shame as he traces that ever familiar mark on your flesh. 

"Then it is as I had supposed. Tis not that thy soulmate has passed, but that thou hath chosen another." His voice is soft, softer than you’ve ever heard it before. And oh how you’ve wished for him to speak to you like this. _But not like this_. His other hand comes up, thumb stroking gently at the palm of your hand and the yearning in your heart grows only stronger.

“No, there’s never been anyone else.” You drop into the chair at the bedside, weightless and boneless. If anything, he appears to deflate further at your words, thumb pausing in it’s ministrations. 

“Then, thou hast determined thyself to refute the draw of thine soulmark.” He swallows heavily then, and lays your hand gently down upon the flowers blanketing in his lap. Fingertips trace gently along the heavy ridges of your knuckles before he reclaims his hands to himself.

“No!” Without thought for your actions you reach for his hands, cupping his larger palms between yours and leaning in from the chair. “That’s not -- that’s not it!” 

Already you feel the tears welling in your eyes, and you dash them away with trembling fingers before rushing to reclaim his hands for yourself. Lip quavering, you find you can’t manage to look him in the eyes for this confession. Somehow, looking down at your hands together, his turning in your hold to return your grasp, somehow the view gives you the courage to spew out what you’ve hidden so close to your heart for so many years. 

“I was young, and foolish, and desperate for any excuse to leave the Twelveswood and go adventuring. My family wouldn’t leave me alone about marrying, having children, making the family respectable. So I found someone that would make the mark look faded and not ask questions. I pretended I’d been courting a Wailer that had died without any other family.” Your deepest shame coming out into the cool night’s air has your shoulders hunching together, half expecting recrimination for your younger self’s deeds. Yet Urianger’s only response is continued silence and a slight squeeze to your clasped hands. 

“I’d always wanted to go travelling and adventuring. I wanted to see more than just the same few parts of the Twelveswood, but my family was already planning a wedding I didn’t want, and I was sure they would find me and drag me back if I just ran.” You pause, bracing yourself to tell the worst of it. There’s been no reaction from him yet, but you’ve never shared this part of it with anyone else and the nerves almost steal your voice from you. Turning your head away from him, unable to bring yourself to look at him at all for this, you stare bleakly at the worn boards under your feet. 

“So I made up a whirlwind romance and pretended to mourn a man that had been too heavily maimed for them to confirm the soul mark. And then as soon as I could, I left. But so many people kept giving condolences for something that never happened that I just … covered it and forgot about it.”

The next bout of coughing goes unnoticed beyond that he continues to hold your hands with one of his until it’s ceased and he’s managed to wet his throat once more. Vaguely, you notice that the blooms are becoming larger and coming in more and more solid clumps, streaks of white growing stronger through the deep, vivid purple. Picking up one of the most recent ones, you marvel for a moment at its beauty. The flower is soft and velvety under your fingers, a tall clump of tiny, five-petalled flowers on a green stalk, miniature blooms creating one larger flower as a whole with a sweetly floral scent drifting up to you. It’s beautiful and can’t possibly be for you, and you know now without a doubt that you need to come clean to him about your feelings. If he’s feeling trapped by his soulmark at all, you need to let him know that he’s free to pursue whoever his love may be. 

“I love you.” You murmur it into the flower in your hand, inhaling its light, sweet floral scent as you gather your courage to continue. “I love you _so much_ and it scares me out of my wits. I spent so long running and hiding my soulmark I forgot there even _was_ someone, but now that I’ve found you I don’t want to let you go. I want to be selfish and keep you to myself, even if it kills you because at least then I’ll know you were mine.”

A single tear drips down your pointed nose, bringing a new depth of colour to the delicate purple and white blossom in your hand as it trails down the short petals. The hand that has been tracing the mark on your wrist freezes in its gentle movement, but the thought of seeing the disgust or revulsion on his face keeps you looking down at the flowers intently. _Always so selfish_. It’s no wonder he fell in love with someone else. 

“But I can’t.” Biting your lip, the sharp pain serves well enough to help you force down the well of emotion that threatens to overwhelm you. “More than anything else at all, more than …. Anything. I want you to live and be happy. But it won’t be with me and that’s --” Swallowing the tight lump in your throat, ignoring the chills that run through your body at actually voicing this thought, the flower trembles in your hand as you lay it back down among its fellows on his lap. Gently extricating your arm from his grasp, you finally look up, meeting his golden eyes directly for the first time since he’s awoken. You see the strong lines of his throat work as he prepares a response and you shake your head harshly, cutting him off before he begins and you lose your nerve.

“It’s okay, Urianger. You already love someone else, and I won’t stand in the way of that. Just, please talk to her. Him. Them. Whoever it is, please talk to them. I’m sure they love you back just as strongly.” You brace your hands on your knees, standing and hardening yourself so you can walk out of his life. “I’ll not raise a fuss or a bother, so don’t worry about me. I’ll be happy just to see you live and find happiness.”

You turn then, determined not to let him see the moment when you fall apart. Pushing the chair back mindlessly with the side of the foot, you make only a step away from the bedside when suddenly there’s a frantic rustle of sheets behind you, a pair of long, bare arms wrapping round your hips and what can only be Urianger’s head pressing against your back. 

“Prithee allow me to speak, if thou wouldst.” His voice is still rough and breathes unsteadily, yet there are notes of his typical smoothness that your heart keens to hear directed at you. 

You rock back to rest on your heels and nod mutely, eyes screwed tight and lips pressed shut in a failed attempt to stave off the tears streaming freely down your face. Perhaps he can feel the sob in your chest, but you tell yourself that as long as you hold in the sound he may not know. A slight tug has you stepping back, shifting him to rest just below your shoulders when his legs swing off the bed with a huffed grunt of effort. His grip is weak, barely there after moons spent struggling for breath in bed. Yet how you’ve yearned for him to touch you for even the barest moment.

“T’was that selfsame selflessness that first ensnared mine attentions.” He turns to rest his cheek against your shoulder as he pulls you further into his grasp. Pressed close like this, you can feel the harsh press of his collarbone and shoulders against you - a sign of just how much this illness has taken from him. 

“Ne’er did’st I question the truth of your widow’s mark. For as assiduously as thou hath protected its truth, I had determined to respect both it and thy grief in turn. Yet fickle are the stirrings of the heart, and oft didst my thoughts return to thee. Freshly widowed though I had but recently believed, there was aught I could do to quench the yearnings for that which was not mine to hold. With every feat and every selfless deed did’st thy visage burrow ever deeper into mine heart.”

His arm leaves you for a brief moment yet you barely notice its absence, frozen by his whispered admissions. He can’t be saying what this sounds like. _Can he?_

The hand returns, holding that same perfect stalk of purple and white hyacinth flowers. Proffering it for you to take, you find it second nature to accept the flower. Your heart skips a beat when he twines his fingers with yours rather than allow you to pluck the flower from his grasp.

“Purple Hyacinth standeth for sorrow, but also jealousy. ‘Tis a common enough emotion, jealousy. Yet reprehensible when directed to a widow’s deceased love. As would the pursuit of said widow have been. And so ever did I strive to place distance and respect above all else. Yet white hyacinth representeth the most heartfelt of prayers.” He exhales roughly, and the staccato pulse in your chest leaps with the feel of lips pressed to the thin material of your shirt. 

“Though uncommon and viewed with disapproval in most locales, ‘tis not unheard of for one to fade their own soulmark in favour of embracing a love found. And ever doth the heart desire whatsoever it wishes. Ever did mine hopes stray to the dream that thine beloved had not been thy soulmate, and the fading of thine mark done by thine own hands.”

Unerringly, his long fingers trace the pattern marring the underside of your wrist. His finger follows the pattern perfectly despite being unable to see it. “The hope and exultation that thine words doth inspire in mine chest are beyond words to express.” A heavy, wistful sigh blows through the fabric on your back, and only then do you notice the faintest of trembles in his own hands.

“Prithee …. Face me once more? I wouldst gaze into thine eyes with these latest of revelations.”

Slowly, with halting movements, you oblige. If there had been any hope of hiding the way your heart beats wildly in your chest and the way your tears stream down your chin, it is well gone now. Gently, ever so gently, he pulls you down to sit beside him on the edge of the bed. Long finger cup your face as he leans in, lips easing the tears from the corners of each eye.

“Cry not, my dearest. Mine affections hath ever been thine, and I fear we hath both been played the fool by our miscommunications. T’was never any other competing for mine love.” His gentle touch, the featherlight brush of his lips to your forehead break the last vestiges of the wall around your heart. You break, tears flowing freely as he cradles you to his chest.

“B-but … What about -- What about Moenbryda? Thancred?”

You can almost imagine the sensation of his aether wrapping around you, though the lips curling in your hair are purely physical. “Merely the dearest and oldest of mine friends. Perhaps there may have been something of substance with Moebryda, had things differed when we were younger. As things stand, nothing came of her affections and mine own focus was far too academic for her liking.” He pauses, hesitating before leaning back so he can gaze into your face. 

“I know not what words were uttered to pique Thancred’s rage such as I awoke to. Yet pray, hold it not against him. As mine sole friend and confidant these long years in Norvrandt, he compriseth the sole entry on the list of those privy to my desire for thine heart and hand.”

Any response or further question you might think of halts at his words.There’s no way he can mistake the way you freeze in his embrace, shock stilling even the breath in your lungs. _Did he just?_

“W-what?” The word is breathy, barely there, and steady golden eyes watch you, a faint hint of concern at their edges. Yet all you can do is stare, trace the line of his jaw and the stubble lining his typically immaculately groomed beard. Grey hair falls along the side of his face, sweeping your gaze to his long ears, then back to those watchful eyes.

“Thancred doth be the only soul to know of mine heart’s desires. The only soul to know that these flowers hath been created by my love for thee and thee alone. Ever have I wished to be granted the grace of thine heart - and, should such be thy desire, thy hand.”

“I …” You must be dreaming. That’s it. That’s the only answer. You must be sleeping, still bent over the side of Urianger’s sick bed. 

“Tis no dream, my dear. …. My love.” His eyes shutter closed with the worshipful exhalation. Fingers cup your cheek, so tender and gentle you can’t help but turn your face into his palm. This close, all you can smell is the ink he uses in his letters, and the tea he brews with. All with the sweet hint of crushed hyacinth in the background. It’s every wish and hope you’ve ever stamped down while watching him from afar.

“May I kiss thee?” His breath smells of the flower even, a faint copper tinge to it you’d rather not think on, yet it fans gently across your cheek and you can only melt further into him. Your heart beats in your ears, tempo heavy with want and yearning. _If this is truly a dream, where’s the harm in indulging?_ Reaching up, you brush his hair away from where it’s fallen across his eyes. The moonlit strands are softer than you’d thought, even with the lack of a proper wash recently. Yet the faint light of the night glints off it like starlight off metal nonetheless. 

“I never want to wake up again.” You murmur, combing your hand through his hair as you lean into him, eyes sliding shut as you cant your head just so. His lips are thin but firm, and not a second is wasted before he presses back into you. The feel of his fingers grazing the bottom of your ear sends a shiver down your spine, unhidden from him now, so caught up in the feel of his lips against yours that naught else matters but that one point of connection. 

He starts to pull away and you follow, either unaware or uncaring of the whimper torn from your throat. Repeating the sound, you chase his retreat only to gasp into his mouth when his hand delves deeper into your hair. He cups the back of your head, making you melt in joy and relief when he seizes control of the kiss, sucking at your lips before teasing your tongue out to play with his. His breath is hot and sweet against your lips as you surge into him, _needing_ to chase the sensation of his kiss with every fiber of your being.

However much time passes, it's only when your head starts spinning with more than just desire that you finally tear yourself away. Your chest heaves against his, panting for breath while your foreheads rest together. Eyes of molten gold stare at you through pale grey lashes and you think for not the first time that you could happily drown in them.

“You’re really … You’re … You …” The sheer force of emotion threatens to overwhelm you -- relief, joy, disbelief, shame, sorrow, and wonder all blending into one intermingled mass till you don’t know where one ends and the next begins. The kisses pressed to your eyelids are indescribably tender, your heart breaking all over again at the thought of what you almost lost. And all due to your own idiotic self. 

“You …. You really do love me? Even after everything?”

“Till all comes to an end and the very aether of all the worlds combined returns to the Lifestream once and for all. Till such comes to pass and beyond, so shall I be yours.” His kiss is soft and gentle, a balm to the ache in your chest that you fear might never fade.

Yet still, you whisper into the night’s dark, eyes closed as you soak in the feel of his embrace. “Can you ever forgive me? I almost killed you. You almost _died_ , and I would have lost you without even knowing what I’d done. If I’d just spoken up, you would have never --”

“Nay, continue not with that thought. We two are both to blame, for neither shared to the other their desires. Blame not yourself, mine dearest.”

“But--”

“No.” One long finger presses to your lips, stalling the protest before it’s fully formed. “Though the effects of these last years yet linger, the blooms themselves are gone. Naught shall come of dwelling on fault. There is much we must speak of, yet for now I wouldst merely hold you and bask in the knowledge that mine own heart’s desires are echoed in thine.”

By the time Y’shtola finally returns with a pot of tea, you’ve fallen asleep on Urianger’s shoulder, held safe and warm in his arms after bells spent speaking of events past, and the ever expansive potential for your future. 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to
> 
> [Emet's Book Club](https://discord.gg/juatmUP)
> 
> for the encouragement and support and ideas, and to
> 
> [TenkeyLess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TenkeyLess)
> 
> for her wonderful beta job and overall patience with me churning this out so close to the deadline!! <3 <3 <3 ILU guys!!


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